


whatever the mess you are, you're mine

by spookyfoot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Danseur Katsuki Yuuri, How do you quantify the level of angst?, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Office Party, Party Planner Victor Nikiforov, Pining, Smitten Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-10-28 06:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10826148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki's treading water after a humiliating failed audition for Megalopolis's premier ballet company, the Stammi Vicino Ballet. Meanwhile, 5 years post-forced retirement from a career ending injury, former SVB premier danseur Victor Nikiforov has established the city's hottest party planning company — but no one in his life seems to realize he's stuck in a holding pattern.When their paths cross at the annual Yu-topia Akatsuki friends and family banquet Victor's standard booking becomes anything but as they shift the tides of one another's lives.





	whatever the mess you are, you're mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thishasbeencary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishasbeencary/gifts).



> I started writing this back in April. It was _supposed_ to be a 2-3k crack fic as a tribute to a running joke about Victor Nikiforov being called VikNik....and how that rhymed with picnic. So yes, this fic was originally called "VikNik's PikNiks," -_-;;;
> 
> (I kept that as the name of Victor's company because it amused me.)
> 
> Content warning: this fic contains discussions of and references to anxiety and depression.
> 
> I'm here on [tumblr](http://katsukiyuuristrophyhusband.tumblr.com) for fic previews and ramblings :)
> 
> Title of the work is from "Challengers" by The New Pornographers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor gets hired for Yu-Topia's friends and family party. Yuuri treads water, and is a bit of an asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaak.

It was Phichit’s fault. Every terrible decision in Yuuri’s life can be traced— directly or not— back to Phichit Chulanont.

( “I can’t believe you’re blaming me for The Macaroni Incident, Yuuri!”

“Seriously? You’re the one who gave me the macaroni. Besides, it’s practically your life’s mission to enable bad decisions."

“Enabling doesn't mean I'm responsible for putting those decisions into action.”

"...Maybe not. But you got me more than halfway there."

"Fine, I'll accept joint custody with weekend visitation.")

_____________________________

Every year, Yu-topia Akatsuki hosts a friends and family banquet for their staff to thank them for a year of hard work. Usually, it consists of endless bowls of katsudon, bottomless bottles of sake, and a group pledge that none of the photos will ever make it onto social media.

The inn is thriving under Mari’s leadership as Hiroko and Toshiya inch from semi to fully retired. This years profits mean they’ve done well enough to splurge a little. Mari celebrates by breaking the usual pattern—she puts Phichit in charge. And of course Mari, the angel of a sibling that she is, obviously doesn’t tell Yuuri that she’s allowed Phichit to hire Victor Nikiforov.

_____________________________

Everyone laughed at Victor when he started VikNik’s PikNiks fresh off a career ending injury; “just a rebound,” they said. They’re not laughing now.

(Well Yuri still laughs at him. But Yuri never needs an excuse for that. "God the name is so dumb. How is this a successful company?"

"People love alliteration! And it makes me seem approachable," Victor sniffs.)

Victor’s calendar is booked months in advance. He’s got custom merchandise. His local cable commercials are have gone viral YouTube. He’s done guest appearances on national morning shows.

(Sometimes he questions if he likes his job. But no one will ever doubt that he’s damn good at it.)

On an ordinary Tuesday, at 9:37am, he—well his assistant actually— receives a call that changes his life.

_____________________________

That Tuesday, Victor is late to work. Victor has been late to work almost every day during the past year. The perks of owning your own business.

(Though his accountant, Yakov, continually yells that being the owner is the precise reason he should arrive early. Victor's never listened to Yakov before, why start now.)  
  
His skinny Mocha from Starbucks is searing hot, he’s wearing his favorite burgundy cashmere sweater, and his jeans hug his ass just right. He's manufactured all the right conditions for happiness; it’s going to be a good day.  
  
Apparently, the door of his office building does not know this. The tempered glass slams into his sternum and splatters fat drops of his skinny mocha across his chest, the searing heat sinking through the soft cashmere of his sweater. Victor lets out a hiss of air through his teeth as he surveys the damage. This will be a bitch to get cleaned.  
  
He looks up, eyes cold, smile strained. It’s AJ, or JR, or whatever the fuck that acronymic douche-bag calls himself.  
  
MJ pats the pockets of his coat, searching for a napkin. He hands it to Victor and raises an eyebrow, “have you thought about my offer?”

Victor has no idea what convinced this asshole that this was in anyway a good time to talk business. “I don’t recall,” Victor’s lip curls as he pats at his sweater. He's mopped up about 20 percent of the spill, which is apparently as good as it's going to get. 

Victor sighs, then brushes past LJ tossing an artificially calm “I’ll send you the bill,” over his shoulder. Maybe that’ll teach the asshole to stop asking if he can buy VikNik’s PikNiks.  
  
He hadn’t thought it was possible, but the elevator ride up to his is even more unpleasant. Drops of sugar-spiked-with-coffee cool on his chest, sticky sweater clinging to his skin, the damp fabric chafing against his chest.  
  
Inside VikNik’s PikNiks, Yuri Plisetsky lounges at the reception desk, feet propped up on the table, fingers flying as he furiously texts on his phone.

"Glad to see you're working as hard as ever, Yura," Victor tosses his empty coffee cup in the garbage next to Yuri's desk and pulls off his sweater.

"What the fuck Victor, now you don't even have to be drunk to strip?" Yuri's knuckles turn white where they’re clenched around his phone.

Victor raises an eyebrow, "Your Canadian friend, LJ, spilled my coffee and ruined my favorite sweater—"

"That asshole's not my friend—”

"And besides, this is my office, not a restaurant. There was never a 'no shirts, no shoes, no service,' rule," Victor replies.

"Well in that case—“ Chris says, walking into reception from the staff break room and peeling off his shirt, "Glad to know the Powers That Be approve of shirtless-ness," he shoots Victor a pointed wink.  
  
“Why are you like this?” Yuri turns and mimes gagging to Otabek, who'd followed Chris into reception. Otabek merely raises an eyebrow and sips his coffee. Coming from him, the reaction is like the equivalent of a full on flash-mob.

“Like what? Chiseled? Edible? Cruelly forced to wear a shirt against anyone’s better judgement?”

“Disgusting,” Yuri spits, crossing his arms over his chest.

Otabek dips below where Yuri's legs are propped up on the desk, opens a bottom drawer, and pulls out an emergency shirt for Victor. He’d learned to keep a stash on hand a long time ago.

"This is why you're my assistant, Beka," Victor beams, pulling on the clean shirt.  
  
"You only hired him, you didn't make him competent,” Yuri says. He blushes, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “don't look at me” and then speeds to the bathroom so fast some one could have mistaken him for the Road Runner. Otabek's eyebrow remains arched as he takes a slow sip of his coffee.

Victor coughs, claps his hands together, and makes the executive decision to ignore whatever just happened, “Otabek, you said we got a call about a local event?"

Otabek nods and passes Victor a sheet of paper with the details.

Victor hums, ”Yu-Topia...where have I heard that name before?" He scans the sheet as though it would suddenly reveal new information; mostly because he wouldn't put it past Yuri to write some important detail in invisible ink, the little shit.

"They catered the Crispino party last year, " Otabek says, trailing Victor into his office.

"Oh! Yes!,” Victor stops, tapping a finger against his lips, “I feel like there’s something else I’m forgetting though…”

No reply. That's fine. Victor's used to filling both sides of a conversation. It's probably his favorite way to spend time with others, if he's honest. "It doesn't look like there's much special ordering or a ton of guests. Should be a routine job.”

_____________________________

It is not a routine job. Victor should realize that the moment he meets a tattooed, bleach haired, cigarette smoking Mari Katsuki, Yu-Topia's manager and co-owner.

"Sorry my brother couldn't be here," she says through a cloud of cigarette smoke, not sounding sorry at all. Victor politely refrains from coughing.

"That's fine. As long as he doesn't have any un-reasonable last minute changes, missing meetings shouldn't be an issue. That's why you hired me, after all," Victor flashes her smile number thirty four, the one he uses for aging socialites, divorcees, and moms at the grocery store. Mari's face does not shift.

"Right. That's why we hired you," she blows another cloud of smoke in his eyes. He does his best not to blink.

_____________________________

He meets with Mari once more before she passes off her party planning duties, and only once does he catch a glimpse of her elusive brother— the parties' alleged co-host.

They're discussing the event's food. Mari insists on Yu-Topia catering at least half of it ("My brother would disown me if we don't serve katsudon. I would disown me.”) and Victor is just about to ask what, exactly, katsudon is, when a tousled mop of black hair and the most perfect ass he's ever seen dashes by carrying a backpack.  
  
"Sorry Mari, can't talk now, I've got class. See you tonight!" the figure calls before sprinting out the door.

Mari takes another drag off of her cigarette and snorts, "My brother.”  
  
Victor is still watching the door, as though his glance is a baited hook that can reel the man back in.

"Are we done here?" Mari exhales a gust of smoke in his face.

Victor looks down at his notes to hide his coughing fit.

(It doesn’t work.)

"I think I've got everything I need for right now,”— he still needs details on the guest list, the room dimensions, what the sound system is like— “we'll meet next week to go over things,”. But he knows when to cut his losses and re-group.

Mari waves her hand through the air, a thin trail of smoke spiraling outward from the cigarette clenched between her fingers, "Great, you're dismissed.”  
  
Victor has never been dismissed before.

He’s also never had a client as quietly demanding as Mari Katsuki.

There’s never any outright confrontation, just steely stares, soft sighs, and the quiet drag of air through a cigarette filter.

He’s supposed to go back to his office. Instead, he drives to 8th Avenue and indulges in a frenzied round of retail therapy.

(The rush of a new purchase is one of the few emotions he still feels at full strength.)

The clerks fawn over him. One store even offers him a free glasses of champagne. Three hours later, he stumbles back to his hot pink Cadillac convertible, his arms garlanded with shopping bags and a new silk Hermes scarf tied in a jaunt knot around his neck.  
  
When finally Victor mopes into the office, he makes the crucial mistake of asking the wrong person for sympathy. Yuri can not stop laughing, "I've never seen a client use your own game against you. I like her," Yuri looks at his neck and rolls his eyes, "and that scarf looks ridiculous.”

Victor raises an eyebrow at Yuri's leopard print hoodie, "you're the last person I'd be taking fashion advice from," he says before quickly shifting his expression into a pout, " besides, Yura, I thought we were family. I'm hurt beyond repair," he holds a hand to his chest, lower lip trembling.

"I never agreed to that. I blame your parents and my grandfather.”

“So, what you’re saying is: it’s our older relatives faults we’re in each others lives?” Victor taps a finger against his lips, “that certainly _sounds_ like a family to me.” He smiles and counts: five, four, three, two…

“Fuck you, you know what I mean.”

Victor ignores him, “no one picks their family, Yura. I guess you’re suck with me!“ He throws an arm around Yuri's shoulders.

"Because you're a fucking limpet disguised as a human being,” Yuri mutters, and then raises his voice to ask, “are you going to take me to ballet or not?” Then he wrenches himself from Victor’s grip and outright flees to the staff break room.

(Victor lets him go. Yuri might start biting soon.)  
  
“Yes, Yura. Because I love you!” Victor calls after him, face breaking into a grin (smile nineteen: for teens, class presentations, and interviews —national only).

He looks at his new scarf in the mirror on the far wall of the office and preens. Empty rituals.

_____________________________

  
Yuuri sweats through his thin, wash-worn tee-shirt— the one his mom has tried to throw out three times in the last year. He’s alone at the barre, but not for long.

"Did you talk to Lilia about moving me out of this shit hole class and into private lessons," Yuri asks as soon as he walks in the studio, as though they'd been in the middle of a conversation and not at the beginning of one.

Yuuri snorts, "I did, but you're acting like anyone can convince Lilia of anything.” After a year of insults, he’s acclimated to Yuri’s unique brand of prickly affection.  
  
“Don't play innocent, Katsudon. We all know you're her favorite."

Yuuri just clutches a hand to his chest "I would never," he lies. Yuri pulls his ballet slippers on so hard Yuuri's worried he'll jam his toes right through the tip.

"Look, Yurio," Yuri's mouth opens but Yuuri continues, undeterred, "you know that Lilia's a traditionalist." Yuuri straightens his posture to the point it could be used as a ruler, folds his hands primly in front of his chest, and affects a Russian accent, "Yuuri Katsuki. This system has been in place before you were born, and I'd sooner wear my hair down than allow my studio to fall into chaos."  
  
"Your accent is horrible," Yuri says, making his way to the barre to begin warming up, "besides, entropy is a universal force. I learned that in fucking high school physics."

Yuuri rolls his eyes, "I don't think Lilia obeys the laws of physics, Yuri."

Yuri just grumbles and continues stretching.

They warm up together silently for a while. There are a couple of other students who take this class, but Yuri always gets here early, always puts in more hours than anyone else. People call him a prodigy, but Yuuri knows he works for it, has seen him tape up his feet after long hours at the barre.

“You’re auditioning this year, right?” Yuri asks, cutting through the silence.

Yuuri sighs. He'd thought this conversation was over. Its not the first time they’ve broached this topic in the last, but he knows Yuri better than to think he'd give up just like that. It's starting to rub his nerves raw.  
  
“I don’t know,” which is Yuuri’s way of saying no without having to deal with confrontation. But he’s talking to Yuri— confrontation is 90% of their conversations.

“Cut the shit. You’re just scared. Don’t let yourself ruin your own life.” Yuri’s pulled his leg off the bar, and is marking the steps of the piece they’re currently choreographing.

Yuuri leans into his stretch. This way he physically can’t meet Yuri’s eyes. “I think I did a spectacular job ruining my life last year.” He’d never expected a pep talk— or what passes for one with Yuri.

“Katsudon, if I had a piroshki for ever I’ve seen you fall on your ass attempting choreography, I’d be able to open a bakery _and_ stock it for a year. I won’t bullshit you. You sure as shit fell on your ass in that audition. But I’ve never though you were a coward too afraid to get back up.”

“Yuri—“

“No. Think about it. What do you really want?”

“I'm not taking advice from someone hasn’t even made the soloist yet," Yuuri says, just loud enough for Yuri to hear. 

Yuri flushes in anger, “fuck you, asshole. Like you'd even know. You're taking part time classes at the local university and haunting this place without any real goal. You just gave up. It's pathetic,” he spits and stomps to the other side of the room.

Minami Kenjiro, another student bounces through the doors and unwittingly preventing their argument from escalating— but the damage is already done. 

“Hi Yuri! Hi Yuuri!”

Yuri shoots Yuuri another glare, but doesn’t say anything else.

Class passes as it always does: a tangle of limbs and arms, instructions snapped out in French, and an endless loop of classical music (today they're working on the first movement from Stravinsky's Rite of Spring). Though he tries to push it aside, there’s a knot of anxiety gnawing pit of Yuuri’s stomach. He wonders if this is how the Titans felt when Zeus tricked them with rocks instead of gods.

As they leave, Yuri shoots Yuuri a look so scathing Yuuri's surprised he doesn't burst into flames. Yuri’s question (“what do you really want?”) runs endless loops through his brain.

_____________________________

  
_One Year Earlier_

 _White walls flicker in the corner of his vision. He closes his eyes, drawing a drag of air through his nose, and down into his lungs, but it does nothing to decrease the tightness pushing at his chest. Waves of nausea pull at him: a moon to a tide. He runs his palms over his face, wills that they could wipe the present away like sleep's morning detritus gathered in the corners of his eyes. No such luck._  
  
_"Katsuki Yuuri," a voice says, sailing towards him through a wall of water. It must be years of training, because years later, it will remain unclear how his feet propelled him forward when he'd floated above it all— a kite untethered to his body._

 _More white walls. A row of hard plastic blue chairs. Clipboards subject to the rhythmic tap of pen caps._  
  
_"Welcome Mr. Katsuki."_

_He offers a shaky smile. He's not sure it succeeds as anything other than a grimace._

_“It says here you train with Okukawa Minako," the voice says, a joust of steel — the sensation of the tip of a blade piercing flesh._

_He nods, eyes trained to his feet, not trusting his voice with words or gestures. He can’t even match voices with faces right now._

_"What will you be dancing to today, Mr. Katsuki," a different voice, lower and softer, but still un-hitched to the present._  
  
_"The Lilac Fairy," Yuuri rasps. He wishes he'd drank the water he'd brought with him, rather than just destroying the cap._

_(He also wishes he'd chosen a piece with less personal history attached. The ghost of Victor Nikiforov dances beside him, dogging every step.)_

_A shuffle of feet. A click. The familiar swell of violins. He doesn't remember anything after that until the soft, "we'll call you," from the second voice. Then it's just the trip-step-fall to his car and the routine caress of shivering shoulders as he fights the familiar dual impulse of push and pull; caving inward and exploding outward, tears spilling down his cheeks the only bridge between the two._

_____________________________

Tuesdays nights are reserved for Yuuri’s advanced pole dancing classes. It's essentially a private session for himself and another student — Christophe Giacometti. It’s one of the highlights of his week.

Gym bag slung over his shoulder, Yuuri glides through the glass doors, past the bored receptionist playing candy crush on her phone (she’s advanced at least twenty levels since he saw her last week), and into the studio. The knot in his chest untangles at the sight of gleaming heard wood— the smell of over enthusiastically applied lemon pledge tickling the inside of his nose.

Chris is already there, one long leg braced high on the pole as he leans into an inner thigh and hamstring stretch. He spots Yuuri and his face stretches into a wide grin.

“Yuuri,” Chris croons, “care to join me?” He flutters his eyelashes.

Yuuri flushes but stands his ground. Six months ago he’d tripped over his own feet as he stumbled backwards out of the studio, cheeks a rose in full rose bloom, arms crossed protectively over his stomach. There's something to be said for repeated exposure. Now, he chuckles, takes his place at the pole next to Chris, and begins warming up.

“Think you can keep up, old man?” Yuuri pulls his leg into an un-supported standing side split.

Chris lets out a long, low whistle. “How are you still single. Damn Yuuri. You should come on a double date with me and Mattheiu. I’ve got a friend I’m _sure_ you’ll like. You could come on the date….and then come after too.” Chris waggles his eyebrows.

“No, Chris.” Honestly.

“But Yuuuuuuuri,” Chris whines.

“No.”

“Fine,” Chris sighs, but Yuuri knows he hasn’t heard the end of it.

They continue stretching for a few minutes until Chris saunters over the the stereo, and plugs his iPod into the auxiliary cable. “By the way, did you see Victor’s new interview—“

“Chris, we are not talking about this—“

“But—“

“Nope. Nope. Nope. Not happening. Next subject.”

“Fine. Just shoot me down. I thought we were friends, Yuuri! I can’t believe you’re treating your best friend like this,” Chris lets out a huge fake sob.

“Phichit is my best friend.”

“He’s imaginary, _obviously_. Otherwise I would have met him by now.”

“I’ll let you keep thinking that.”

“Savage.”

Yuuri just shrugs, hiding his grin.

“I heard auditions for SVB are in a couple months.”

Oh god, not Chris too.

“Mmm.” Maybe a non-answer will shut Chris up.

“Are you auditioning?”

“No Chris.”

“But—“

“You know what happened last year. I’m not putting myself through that again. I ended up in _therapy_ ,” Yuuri omits the fact he bailed on therapy months ago, “it’s just not meant to be.”

“Well it never will be if you keep hiding.”

Yuuri's a cold rubber band stretched too far—he snaps,“Chris, stop. I get enough of this from my own brain— just let it go.” Chris sighs, raises his hands and drops it. Yuuri's safe, for now at least. 

(At least Chris didn't make a _Frozen_ joke. )

"Just…promise me you’ll think about what you want? You’re good at lying to yourself, Yuuri.”

Before Yuuri can lash out again, Chris switches tactics, “are you excited for our recital? Don't forget —you promised me we could do a pairs routine.”

Yuuri cracks a spectre of a smile, “we’ll have to figure out a song.”

Chris runs with it, “way ahead of you,” he smirks, Cheshire cat incarnate. Oh god, Yuuri knows that look. He fears that look.

Chris walks over to his iPod and [presses play](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbnoG2dsUk0). Yuuri recognizes the electronic vamp immediately.

“Chris!”

_____________________________

The next time Victor heads to Yu-Topia, two weeks after he was hired, he’s wearing his new scarf. He enters the lobby and Mari Katsuki affords him a cursory look, a smile approaching a grimace— and then saddles him with what he mistakenly believes is a babysitter in the form of one Phichit Chulanont. If Mari has the stoic skepticism of a judge faced with a never ending stream of guilty men pleading innocent, Phichit is the unbridled enthusiasm and cold calculation of an Instagram model who’s received their first sponsored post.

After cursory introductions, Phichit’s vivacious steamroller of a personality emerges full force.

”Let's talk decorations—“

"I've got an itemized list of decorations and props we'll need for the party," Phichit passes him a thick folder across the table. Victor scans the list, and his eyes land on—

"A stripper pole?" his voice cracks. He winces. So much for professional.  
Phichit hums an affirmative and scrolls through his phone.

“You’ll see why we need it at the party,” Phichit's grin is positively feral, a gash of white teeth that glints under the florescent light. Victor's arsenal is not equipped with that kind of smile. He makes a mental note to practice. He much prefers one-sided conversations when he’s the one doing all the talking.

(Part of him wonders if Phichit is really walking all over him— or if he's letting him because Victor just doesn’t care anymore.)

  
_____________________________

_Two Years Earlier_

_Victor hasn't been to the ballet since he shattered his right ankle at twenty and cut off all his hair. Lilia insisted he come tonight. The theater’s blue velvet seat chafes as it rubs against the damp patch of dress shirt situated between his shoulder blades. He pastes a smile on his face, a thing of peeling plaster and flaking paint. Smile number three: for coerced nights at the ballet, re-gifted socks, and his third cousin twice removed's birthday party. He's still wondering why he's here when the lights go down, and he's sandwiched by strangers on either side._

_The soft wool of his trousers rustles as he shifts in his seat. An errant elbow to his neighbor on the right earns him a rather impressive glare. The left corner of his lip twitches upward, not quite a smile — but its still an expression he's meticulously catalogued, saved for Yuri's rants about his school's dress code, Makkachin's insistence the right side of the bed is hers, and the little foam hearts the barista and Holy Grounds sketches on his morning latte._

_The lights dim. Victor— derealized and experiencing the world through layers of gauze and frosted glass— wonders at the communal voyeuristic experience of theater. Red velvet curtains draw open to reveal a dark stage and Victor's absolutely sure he knows what Grand Partizan's interior designer’s favorite fabric is._  
  
_Victor cups his chin in his hand, and suffers through a trite opening number. If the whole show is like this, he'll make his excuses at intermission and run home to cuddle with his dog. A much better use of his time._

_(Makkachin is one of the only things that can hold his attention these days.)_

_Two performances in, and Victor's trying to steal subtle glances at his phone. Evidently, he's not cut out for a future in espionage— the neighbor to his right shoots him a glare at the bright burst of light disrupting the viscous darkness that blankets the theater._  
  
_He should have known better than to attend a student showcase, should have offered his ticket to Georgi. Victor spends most of the third performance calculating the earliest they'll reach intermission. The fourth is a mental run through of the birthday party a flirty house-husband had contracted for his spouse. Performance five he spends with his eyes closed, lost in the music and ignoring the train wreck on stage. As performance six, the last before the intermission, begins, Victor cracks his left eyelid open so he can decide if he should save himself from witnessing this one as well._  
  
_[At the opening salvo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5Y11hwjMNs)— a woman's smoky voice curling around his ears in invitation and seduction—both of Victor's eyes fly open. The figure on stage executes an intoxicatingly slow and precise series of steps, perfectly timed to the song's vocals. As the instrumental vamp breaks in, the man—Victor can tell it's a man now that his eyes have focused past his shock-- the steps and spins pick up, escalating to a series of jumps as the horns reach their first crescendo._

_Victor has never seen ballet look so fluid and lyrical. Every note of music sings through the man's limbs, soft yet sexy— and utterly enthralling. He uses the entirety of the stage, each time he repeats a sequence it escalates in time with with the woman's voice, until the song crescendos into a freestyle vocalization that the dancer matches with a reckless and beautiful series of spins._

_At the final held notes, the dancer slinks off stage —Victor just catches his dark, slicked back hair, and wide brown eyes—the lone spotlight shining down where he once stood. The spellbound audience returns to itself and breaks into applause as the curtains draw closed._

_The house lights come up and Victor is frozen in his seat. But the time Victor realizes he never got a program his neighbors have abandoned him for the bar . Both Left and Right shoot him glares when he tries to initiate a conversation with smile number 23 (charity events, invitations to veiled romantic dinners, clasped hands under starlight) and while, against his expectations, he ends up staying for the rest of the show, he never finds out the dancer's name._

_(When he asks Lilia she just fixes him with a stony stare and tell shim he should have paid attention for once. The rising tide of apathy pulls him under. He doesn’t fight it. He forgets. He doesn’t learn the dancer's name until two years later.)_

_____________________________

  
At the next meeting, Phichit requests smoke machines for the party. Victor stares at him, dumbfounded.

"This was not what Mari asked for.”

Phichit smiles that terrifying gash of a grin, "Oh I know. That's why she put me in charge instead! Don't worry about photos though, I've got that covered," he winks and pats the camera bag on the seat next to him.

Phichit spends the next thirty minutes drawing elaborate renditions of the centerpieces he wants for the tables ("Table 10 has to have hamsters"), searching Pantone for the exact shade of off white he wants for the tablecloths, re-arranging Victor's seating chart, and generally doing Victor's job for him before strong-arming Victor into following him Instagram. He’s as self-satisfied as a chef who’s managed to make kale palatable.

"Why did they even hire me," Victor mutters, tucking his leather portfolio under his arm as he skulks out of Yu-Topia's front entrance. He's not going to be bullied next time.

(Some small part of him notes he’s even performing for himself now.)

He checks his phone. It's just past five, a more than respectable time to head over to Chris' for a well deserved drink. God he hopes Chris restocked his vodka.

_____________________________

  
Chris did, in fact, restock his collection of vodka. Of course, he did it with terrible kitschy flavors just to piss Victor off and spear a dagger into his Russian soul.  
  
"I don't think we can be friends anymore," Victor shudders through a shot of cotton candy flavored vodka. The things he does for inebriation.

"You wouldn't have any friends then, Vitya," Chris pounds two shots — marshmallow and green apple— then smirks at Victor, eyebrows raised.  
Victor hides behind his pout, "Fine, then you're a terrible friend,"  
  
"Au contraire," Chris takes another shot and stares Victor down, "I am an amazing friend because I'm drinking this terrible vodka with you.”  
  
Victor snorts and raises a shot glass, "Cheers, to the worst best friends in the world!"

"I'll drink to that," Chris agrees.

A rapid succession of shots follows. By the time Victor deems himself sufficiently drunk, three quarters of the bottle of cotton candy vodka is gone and his tastebuds no longer suffer through the flavor.

"So, tell me, what's going on that's got you seeking solace in the bottom of bottle," Chris asks.

"If you can use the word solace than you're not drunk enough," Chris can just make out the sentence through the slurring.

"That wasn't an answer,"

Victor downs another shot, "work.”

"...You're giving me nothing," Chris rolls his eyes

Victor mimes drawing a zipper across his lips, says, "Doctor-Patient confidentiality," and throws away the key.  
  
"You're not a doctor, Victor."

He shrugs, "No but I take my job as seriously as one.”

"Your company is fucking called VikNiks PikNiks," Chris fixes him with A Look.

"It's a catchy name. Market research says people love alliteration," Victor whines.

Chris uses Victor's own words against him, "If you can use the word alliteration, _clearly_ you are not drunk enough." He leans over to the mostly full bottle of green apple vodka on his coffee table, and pours them both another shot.

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation for the second time this week,” Chris mutters before turning to Victor, “we’ve done this six times this month Victor. Something’s going on.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Twenty liters of vodka in four weeks is about as far from nothing as Pluto is to earth.”

“Did you hear that they want to make Pluto a planet again?” Victor refuses to look at Chris; instead he’s drawing a penis with his finger tip on the condensation coating the outside of the bottle of green tea flavored vodka.

“Then they decided it wasn’t a planet again, we’ve had this conversation at least three times. Stop deflecting.”

Victor ignores him and adds testicles.

“Victor. Victor. Victor.” Chris starts poking him, “if I’m going to enable your terrible decision making, I deserve to know why.”

Victor sighs, “I don’t want to sound ungrateful—“

“Which means you _are_ going to, but continue.”

Victor glares at him. He turns back to the bottle and starts a new drawing— a dog this time. “Do you want me to share with the class or not, Professor Giacometti?”

“Ooooh kinky! I like being called professor. I’ll have to bring it up with Mattheiu." Chris turns towards him, fixing Victor with his undivided attention. Victor shifts in discomfort. Chris continues, unswayed, "now, spill.”

“I’m good at my job, right Chris?”

“How is that even a question, you’ve been on Wake Up America three times.”

“Fine. So if I’m good at it, is that the same thing as loving what I do?” Victor’s frowning. Chris involuntarily mirrors him— a frown just looks wrong on Victor’s face.

“No, it’s not. Are you unhappy?”

“I don’t know that I’m much of anything these days, honestly.” Victor’s begun sketching a second dog to keep the first company.

“Vitya—“

“Don’t use my diminutive to butter me up, Chris.”

“Fine, _Victor_ , so what do you want to do about it?” Chris is terrified that Victor will raise his shields again if he looks away for a second.

“What can I really do?”

“Lots of things! You’ve got enough money to support yourself for a long time without working, you could do anything!”

“How is that supposed to make me feel better?” Victor snaps, turning so fast he spills a shot of cookie dough flavored vodka.

“I’m just saying you have options—“

“And that if I don’t take them I’m just whining for no reason?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It sure sounded like it from where I’m sitting.”

“You’re just projecting.”

“I came here to drink, not be psychoanalyzed.”

“Victor—“

“No. New subject or I’m leaving.”

Victor drove here. Chris can’t let him leave, not with the amount of alcohol currently swimming in his bloodstream.

Chris sighs then affects an overly cheerful tone. Victor’s either drunk or angry enough to ignore the hollow ring of imitation enveloping Chris’ words, “fine, fine. If you don't want to talk about work. Lets talk about your love life! I know the most amazing guy from my pole dancing class and I think he'd be just perfect—"

Victor groans. Not this again. “I changed my mind, let’s take a vow of silence starting now.”

“But Victor, he’s amazing. He’s kind but with the just the right amount of sass, plus he's ridiculously flexible, and his ass—"

"No Chris. No setups. Not after the last one."

(He'd never gotten the stain out that tie and the restaurant had an actual picture of him next to the door, denying him entry "till infinity and beyond". Apparently the owner was a _Toy Story_ fan.)

"Okay, I'll admit that last one was a mistake. But this time—"

"No Chris.”

"Who here is the one in a long term, committed relationship?"

"You, somehow," Victor mutters, "even though you have shitty taste in vodka," which is an absolute deal breaker.

"I'll be sure to vet all future options with a 50 question survey on vodka quality.”

"There will be no future options, Chris," Victor refuses to budge.

"Sure thing," Chris winks. Victor knows this conversation isn't over long-term but he'll settle for their night returning to some semblance of drunken peace.

Chris reads the mood, picks up the bluetooth remote off his coffee table, and changes the song to "[Shots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XNtTEibFvlQ).”

(And for a little while, Victor forgets.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuri is aged up in this. I couldn't see him working at a company with regular school days.
> 
> A megalopolis (sometimes called a megapolis; also megaregion, or supercity) is typically defined as a chain of roughly adjacent metropolitan areas. I didn't want people to think this took place in Superman-lives-there-Metropolis, so....yeah. Also Yu-Topia Akatsuki is on the fringe suburbs, giving it the sense of a retreat from the city.
> 
> the next chapter is mostly written, so hopefully it'll be up soon. I'd like to finish ch.2 of "set sail from sense" as well. we'll see how that goes. likely set sail from sense will be my priority because I'm really feeling that one right now.
> 
> Chapter 2 will be the party!
> 
> A little preview:
> 
> Yu-Topia is strangely empty when he arrives. Victor expected a bustle of people preparing the inn with the exorbitant amount of last minute "tweaks" and "personal touches" that Phichit had requested in the weeks leading up the event. And yet, even in their short acquaintance, Victor feels confident saying that Phichit Chulanont in and of himself is an army. Maybe it's better there are less people there for him to bulldoze on his way to establishing his "vision". Victor's inbox is a mess of mood boards that Phichit had sent his way over the past month.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is entirely plotted out. I have about 15k written, so theoretically the updates will be fairly regular. No set schedule though. The chapter count is 100% an estimate. It is very likely it will change considering I'm objectively terrible at estimating length for my fics. Especially since this got way out of control and now looks like it'll be 40-50k. Maybe the worst estimation of fic length ever?
> 
> Also the use of a "k" in the title of Victor's company vs. the "c" in his day-to-day name will be explained!
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! It's exciting to finally have the first chapter of this done.


End file.
